February 14, 1923

June 25, 2012 by  
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Saint Valentine’s.

The world has fallen from beneath my feet. I am searching for a sign of existence; whether it is city, ocean, sky or space. But there is nothing. I am floating and existing within a stark emptiness, and there is nobody, nor nothing, within this wretched world to soothe me back into my living soul. I am tired of searching. I am tired of breathing. I am tired of existing. I am tired of quarrelling with questions and figures in my mind, which never pause long enough for me to understand what they tell. My ankles are freezing now, with the breeze coming from Ellis Island travelling fifty miles per hour before reaching my bare skin like fifty freshly cut diamonds. My knees feel weak as I draw them up to my chest. But I cannot feel their weakness.

The embankment feels like hollow space beneath my bottom. I am unable to feel a thing, really. The lilac chiffon tail of my dress is swaying around my ankles, creating an ounce of warmth each time it wraps around its own, lustrous layers before cuddling my skin. I dab the lower ring of my left eye with a handkerchief, praying to end the stream of tears for just a moment. I blink into the distance until my eyes rest upon three beautiful masses of material, swaying in the midnight breeze, catching the attention of the girl with the fallen world.

The American flag.

The United States of America! I feel as if something great or godly had just flown, at infinitive miles per hour, into my chest. The United States of America: my hopes, my dreams; my home. And for the tiniest second, my woes had been knocked from my mind and my breath had caught in my throat.

No, no, no.

I will not allow myself to be captured again. And certainly not tonight; not after everything that has happened. Was this the plan all along? Is this what fate feels like? Can it be true, that I spent so long wishing, and so much of my energy working, to find my way into this? Is this what the United States of America had in store for me… all along? I feel foolish, and I feel cheated. I look out into the tiny lights, sparkling and blinking in the distance. Had I misjudged them all along? Had I followed them, like little beacons of hope- with no realisation as to how deeply they had lured me in- like a siren to her sailors? Was I wrong to trust Miss Lady Liberty and her beacon of so-called hope? A glacial blonde ringlet finds its way across my face before settling in front of my eyes, protecting my vision. A white, almost angelic steamboat oozing with the latest batch of immigrants passes my peripheral before sailing directly in front of my unruly curls. I can only tell that it is, in fact, a steamboat from the purring sound that is vibrating against the embankment, forcing its way into my bare toes and up through my body. I am not paying much attention to it, not really. The purring is fading almost as fast as it had arrived, and the white is displayed only in small flashes as the wind forces my hair back and forth in front of my face. There is not much to think of it, really. Unlucky, chaps- I can only wish you the best of luck here in New York City.

The City of Dreams.

Focus, Belle. Focus, focus… focus. That is what my mother had always told me. I must focus; and no matter how much it pains me to do so, I must remember even the smallest detail of the Fourteenth of February, 1923. I must write it down on paper so that I will not forget now, and so that I will remember always.

Dear Leicester; my sweet Leicester. My love. How could this have happened to you- such a sweet, righteous man? I allow my head, full of bright blonde ringlets, to fall in between my knees. What would Leicester say, if he were here, witnessing me in such a state? I know exactly what he would say, word for word. They are words quite impossible to forget. He would say, “The world is yours, Duchess,” Expect for, you were my world, sweet Leicester; and now that you are gone, everything is broken. America is broken; our lives together are broken, and I am broken.

A fresh tear protrudes my heavily made-up cheek, sending streams of coloured powder in awkward directions. The liquid onyx below my eyelashes is simultaneously stinging and causing my eyes to blur. I curl my fingers around the amethyst coloured rosary that hangs around my neck. The cross is cold, much like my heart. My eyes search for an empty piece of sky above Ellis Island. I hold the cross so tightly that I fear my blood will not pump around my veins. My lips are sore with tear stains and cold air. I pray. I pray that Leicester is in a better place; and that his predator collides with every piece of Karma to ever grace the earth. I pray that I will get through this alive, and that America will still beat strongly in my heart afterward, as Leicester promised it always would (he could see it in my eyes). I breathe inward, the air igniting the inflamed bags beneath my eyes. My nasal passages feel restless, sending trickles of liquid through my cupid’s bow and onto my lips as I allow several sobs to escape my throat. Sea salt.

I pray until the moon swings over the dusky Manhattan skyline and it is morning again.

Meet My Masked Saviour

September 2, 2011 by  
Filed under British Beauty, Pixie's Novels

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14th November 2009

I wake in a small crowded room, surrounded by stacks of books and documents wrapped in brown paper and thick, beige coloured string. It’s very dim, the blinds are drawn and I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing here; in this stuffy little room, with the biggest headache of my life. After a few minutes of straightening myself out, I feel my way around the cold, smooth surface of what I’m lying on… tables? I sit up far too quickly, my eyes are weary and the room spins before I can focus properly. The cream cardigan I’ve been wearing all day is wrapped around my body, my bra is undone with the straps hanging freely around my back; and there is a dark blue jumper- a man’s dark blue jumper- where my head had been resting before I pulled myself up. It dawns on me how bad this must look.

I strain my eyes through the dim lighting to see a figure sitting at the foot of the table. I gasp, drawing both legs up to hug myself. Garner? The messy brown hair and soft jawline of the figure looks unfamiliar to me, and I quickly realise the jumper on my make-shift bed must belong to him. “Hello there,” The boy laughs a little, more out of relief than humour; he covers his mouth with a clasped fist to mask his embarrassment. “It’s good to see you with us again,” “Um, what happened, tonight, last night- whichever night it is? I’m sorry… do I have anything to be sorry about?” My voice goes weak and croaky as I get a better look at his face. The corners of his eyes crease as he laughs; he has dimples in his broad cheeks; and he’s obviously a lot older than I am. He’s gorgeous, and I’m half-laying on a table in last night’s clothes, jumbling every word that comes out of my mouth. It’s not exactly the kind of first impression anybody wants to give, post-tragedy or not.

“Wait… so you don’t remember anything from last night? Anything at all? Phew, what a relief. It’s probably for the best. Oh god! God no… I didn’t mean. I didn’t mean anything happened between… you and I. If it did, there’s no way I’d want you to forget, believe me” The boy slapped his head playfully, cracking into another laugh, which sounds familiar to me already. I can’t see a lot of his expression through the dim room, but I catch a sparkle in his grin through the spaces in between his fingers; it makes me feel warm inside. I pull a face. “What I mean is… I was helping you. I’m Dyllan, by the way. It looks like we’re already past exchanging first names” My cheeks flush pink, and I hope the room is dark enough for him not to notice. “I guess we are. I’m Bethany”

I swing my legs around so they are hanging off the edge of the table, and tighten the bow around my cardigan to regain some of my decency. Dyllan has seen it all already, if he was the one who undressed me last night. “I better be going,” My toes feel chilly on the floor tiles as I stand up and gather my things together before I leave. “You’re going? Maybe you should relax for a little while, make sure you’re good before you start moving around again?” “I’m fine, really. I have to get going. Thank you though, for everything. Nice to meet you, Dyllan”

I didn’t stay long enough to wait for Dyllan’s good bye. It felt easier to turn and walk away without knowing anything else about him, to leave our meeting as simple as two strangers helping each other out. I pull the sleeve of my cardigan back to see that the wound on my arm has been cleaned up and wrapped in bandages. The thought of a sewing tack prising it open again makes my teeth cringe. I pass large panelled windows as I walk down a narrow stretch of the library corridor, I stop to look at my reflection half way. There’s a faded smudge of my own blood across my left cheek and throughout my hair where, presumably, I’d combed my fingers through it after clutching my arm last night. The blood looks vibrant in the midst of my light blonde hair; which is loosely tied up and looks as if it’s been slept on for three days.

Of course I remember everything about last night; I was wide awake, listening to the sound of Dyllan’s fist plunge into Garner’s face. Despite knowing everything, something inside me forced me to lie to Dyllan the moment I opened my eyes and saw him for the first time. I wanted to make the things we knew about each other unknown, because we only had one chance to meet as strangers. Two blissfully ignorant strangers, a boy and a girl saying hello and exchanging names. I instantly knew I didn’t want him involved. The trouble is… he already was. I walk past the main library, my bare feet still sticking to the tiles as I walk, and saw Dyllan’s laptop, dark burgundy and etched wide open, sitting alone on the table where he had left it. I strain my eyes hard to see the screen. “Isis- The Goddess of Protection and Magic”.

-An extract from the prologue of my novel, “British Beauty”

Who Says Romance Has To Be Sweet?

August 28, 2011 by  
Filed under British Beauty, Pixie's Novels

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13th November 2009

The rain thunders down outside, casting a dark loom over the biggest library in the city. Its rush hour and the company cars, buses and black cabs are running rings around the business people on the streets below. The rain falls so rapidly and with such force that it resembles hail stones; each oversized droplet bouncing off the pavement, as if god himself were beckoning it back into the sky.  A fair haired woman in bare legs and peep toes runs across the street where paused traffic waits for the lights to turn green, she dashes under the alcove of an ageing bell tower and waits for the downpour to subside a little. A black Mercedes-Benz bleeps urgently below the library, presumably set off by the vibrations of the storm, it waits for its owner to return and drive it to safety. A bald headed man in his late forties rushes out from the glass cased building opposite; his ditzy print tie swings in awkward directions as he braves the weather. He forks into his trouser pocket for his keys, drops them once onto the watery ground and reunites the sensor pad with the car; the air falls quiet as the alarm stops almost instantly.

“If anybody asks what we’re doing down here, you’ll tell them we’re looking for a book” Garner looks at me with his intense, almost murderous eyes. “It doesn’t matter which one, and no, we don’t need any help finding it” He crouches down to rest on the balls of his feet, and jabs a set of his angled knuckles into my right shoulder. I collapse onto the carpet; a blur of deep maroon fills my vision as I land on my side, the cushion of my cheek a few inches from the ground. Garner grips the top of the arm I’m holding myself up with. He curls his bulky fingers around my skin; lacing them into one another so I have no room to pull away; and digs the tips of his fingernails into my flesh, as far as they would go. He pierces it, creating a trail of rich blood that trickles downward and makes me feel physically sick as it soaks through my vest top and onto the skin underneath; it feels sticky and warm.

“How about I tell you what the best part is, sweetheart?” Garner doesn’t expect a reply, but keeps his eyes on me to enjoy my grimace; he knows how much I hate that word. “I can feel this, you can feel this; but hell… nobody else can” His words come out as nothing more than a prolonged whisper. He glances around at the other people in the room, all of whom sit, read and work in silence. I stifle a sob as it travels through my chest and gets caught in my throat, my nerves are tightening my airways, it feels like I’m trying to push a solid ball through a tube, and failing miserably. I move slowly to straighten my back as Garner searches through his rucksack, allowing my body to go stiff whenever he looks as if he’ll turn around. I unfold my body from the crumpled-up ball I have been curled up in. My breasts move further away from my stomach, and I can now take deep, expansive breathes with ease. My new found lease of oxygen gives me a little strength, it settles my nausea just enough for me to slouch into a position different from the one I had fallen in.

A boy with dusty brown hair, in his late twenties, perches on the edge of a bench with chrome legs a few feet away; he hunches over to study the zoomed in text on his laptop screen. I concentrate on the movement of his wrists as he flickers from tab to tab; he’s cross referencing dates for something, and is too far gone to notice a girl sitting on the floor behind him. Why would he suspect I’m in trouble, in a library, a busy central library, of all places? I feel sick again as I suss the reason behind Garner’s choice of meeting places. He’s smart, I give him that. Garner would have known the library would be busy at this time of day, especially with the weather so bad outside; it’s an ideal place to take shelter; with its super powered radiators and comfy, worn in chairs and bean bags. He would have also known people would take advantage of the bean bags instead of awkwardly milling around in the ancient history aisle- he planned all of this perfectly and knew exactly how it was going to go, sick.

The boy’s hair is scruffy; but in an attractive way, not a neglected way. The ruffled cream collar of his shirt stands out in contrast to his deep blue jumper, and the tired looking bands around his left wrist suggests he has a relaxed side to him. I concentrate on the boy with the dusty brown hair for as long as he will stay sitting there; in the hope that something, somehow, will force him to turn around.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Garner presses, fixating his eyes on the rows of books in front of him, being careful to maintain his hold on my arm. “You’re on my side, remember? That means you’re supposed to back me up, it doesn’t mean you can make me look like a fool. We’re a team, you and I” Garner carries on, his expression becoming wilder as he realises he’s going to get nothing from me but the silent treatment. “So, what, I don’t deserve an explanation?” I squeeze my eyelids shut as he produces a sewing tack from his palm and plucks it into the edge of my cut. My cheeks are sodden with tears as the stinging sensation overwhelms me; my pores weep from the sudden clamminess of the room and the sweat curdling my day old concealer.

I feel a thick, dizzy pain rush over the flat of my forehead as the wound in my arm becomes unbearable; if I don’t lie down and let the blood rush to my head soon, I’m going to faint. My body begins to surrender itself, and I slump further down so that my spine is pressing up against the ridges of a book shelf. My body becomes moist, and I can feel nothing but the cool of my tears as they travel across the surface of my skin.

I can still faintly hear noises in the background; but they are too muffled to make any sense. An uneven rumble moves through the carpet beneath me; is it still raining and thundering outside?

A sweep of fresh air whirls around my face as somebody rushes over and kneels beside me; I can’t open my eyes to see who it is. A different kind of tingle fills my insides as he gently touches my cheek; there is no movement as he pauses for a few moments. His breathes quick and deep as he gasps for air; he seems as stunned by the situation as I am. I subconsciously feel his eyes search my face, he wants answers. He wraps the thick, woollen edge of my cardigan around my torso and tucks it underneath my breast to the far side of me. It feels like an actual blanket, warm and fluffy; but also like an invisible blanket, his invisible blanket; as if he promises to protect me from now on.

The grip on my arm is quickly released by Garner, who shoots back in realisation of what has just happened. His profile is full of unsaid apologies, but by now, with me lying on the floor in front of him, it’s a little too late for him to play and cheat his way out of it. “Let… her… GO!` A male voice, one I don’t recognise, growls at Garner; a command so deep that I fear the window panes will cave in to the storm and wipe out the contents of the entire library.  I flinch in my skin as the boy leaves my side and heads toward Garner. He grabs either side of his oesophagus with one hand and slams him into the heavy pine book case; loose books free themselves from the shelves and fall to their feet and my head.

The thuds of the books hitting the floor makes my body shake, both out of anticipation of who will come off better, and from fear of a stray hardback hitting me in the face. I am more alert now, but still too numb to manoeuvre my hands quick enough to shield my features.

-An extract from the prologue of my novel, “British Beauty”.